Libations
by gryffindormischief
Summary: Harry's never been much for sharing his feelings - but liquid courage goes a long way with a certain Boy-Who-Lived.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: prompt from annikaleigh24 over on tumblr! I am considering making this a small series of one shots involving the adventures of intoxicated!Harry. let me know what you think :)

* * *

It's quiet – too quiet – when Ginny steps gracefully from the fireplace, shaking the ash from her clothes and vanishing it with a mindless flick of her wand.

The Burrow's never been a house of silence, in her approximately two decades of life, and she feels a tremor of concern trickle down her spine. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ginny catches a whiff of broiled fish and garlic potatoes, which is _somewhat_ comforting. It's been long enough, years really, since the war that she knows everything's likely fine. But it's a lot to let go of, to move past.

And some nights when she wakes, trembling and drenched in a cold sweat, it isn't hard to imagine it might never go away. Not really.

As she cautiously picks her way toward the kitchen, she nearly jumps out of her skin when raucous laughter rises in a shout from the back garden – George's loudest of all – and she can't help the grin spreading across her face, grim thoughts forgotten for the moment.

Slipping out into the star spangled night air, Ginny tugs her leather jacket closer around her middle, fiery waves blowing in the late summer breeze as she wanders over to the bonfire set between the house and the rolling hills in the distance.

Taking in the family gathered before her, Ginny spots her parents snuggled together, backs to the small copse of trees that guard the far left of their sprawling property, Arthur's arm wrapped close around Molly's shoulders, twin smiles gently warming their wind chapped cheeks. Percy's locked in some heated debate with Charlie and Fleur, the former gesticulating wildly while the latter begins losing her grip on the English language, and not giving a shite as the shrill note of her voice rises. Despite the intense nature of their chatter, the trio _does_ deem to be enjoying themselves. And lastly, her eyes are pulled like a magnet toward the lone raven-haired family member, slumped against Bill's side and…petting his beard?

Ginny creeps closer and catches George's playful drawl as he speaks from his place lounged in front of the fire. "I think, Harry, we should hear more about how _cool_ Bill is."

Ginny can see the laughter light Bill's eyes as he pats Harry's back comfortingly. "You don't have to – "

"No! It's ok," Harry cuts in, "Th-that firs' summer I saw you – "

"Here it comes," Ron moans, "Who's gonna tell Gin and Fleur?"

Harry kicks at Ron clumsily, still snuggled into Bill's shoulder, "Stuff it, you were daft about Krum and I don't see you snoggin' 'im."

"Damn right you don't," Ron grumbles.

"'nway, Bill's got hair and an earring like a rockstar."

Bill grins, scars twisting, "Fleur does like to – "

Clearing her throat, Ginny steps into the light, "I'm all for sibling banter, but I draw the line at you and your – "

" _Wife's_."

Ginny lets the unsavory but increasingly affectionate nickname remain unsaid, "Wife's _kinks_."

"When did ickle Gin-Gin get so harpy-ish?" George questions the clouds overhead as they drift across the silver moon,

"It's in my contract," Ginny drawls, "Now who did _this_ ," she gestures toward her boyfriend sprawled across the eldest Weasley son, "to my Harry."

All three Weasley boys clam up while Harry tilts his face toward Ginny, mouth dropping open in a gasp as he elbows Bill conspiratorially, "Tha's my girlfriend."

Biting his cheek, Bill nods, "Well spotted mate."

Harry blinks, "Isn' she the mos' beaut'ful thing?"

Bill splutters and Harry sighs, "Don' worry. I won' tell your wife if y' say so."

Snorting, Ginny steps over her brothers' sprawled forms and grabs Harry's hands, "I'll get a straight answer from Hermione – " she glances around the circle once more, "wherever she is."

"You rang?" Hermione calls out from the back door, trotting over.

Flailing a bit, Ron reaches out and Hermione complies, perching on his knee though she still addresses Ginny. "I got called to the Ministry so I can't be sure, but I'd say George is a safe bet for the culprit."

Aiming a crooked stick at Hermione like the business end of his wand, George frowns thoughtfully, "I would take umbrage at the false accusation, but I _do_ appreciate the fact that my reputation precedes me."

Bill grasps Harry's shoulder as the latter sways a bit in his seat. "As an _uninvolved_ party, I would put in that in fairness, it was a group effort – " he quails a bit at Ginny's glare and clarifies, " _Not_ involving me."

Eyebrow rising imperiously, Hermione turns to Ron as he splutters, "It's not like I snuck something in."

Palms of his hands pressed to the packed earth, George sits up and smirks at his sister, "Nah, our Harry here _does_ like his drinky-poo."

Harry blinks up at Ginny, "I do – 'specially firewhisky," his eyes glaze over a bit, "But s'not as good as you."

Grateful she hasn't stepped fully into the brightness of the bonfire, Ginny feels her cheeks flush at Harry's words and increasingly adoring gaze that isn't even ruined by Ron and George's twin groans.

"Drunk Harry's no fun anymore," Ron whines, face twisted in a grimace.

After he recovers from his melodramatic dry-heaves, George pauses. "Y'know, sickening as that was, Bill may be giving you a run for your money Ginny."

For a moment, Harry looks a bit panicked like Ginny's going to believe the teasing, but her lips tick up in a smile and the relief _visibly_ floods him as he relaxes against Bill's arm again. "How about I take you home before Bill gets any ideas, Boy-Who-Lived?"

He extends a hand and Ginny grabs it, tugging him to his feet and toward the house, to the tune of much jeering from her brothers and kind farewells from her parents – including an order from Molly to visit again before the next family dinner.

They stumble through the kitchen and toward the low-lit fire, Harry leaning heavily against her side while his chilly fingers grasp her bare middle, stroking softly in that way that reminds Ginny _exactly_ how much he loves when she wears crop tops. A love that apparently becomes more pronounced when he's inebriated, if Harry's tickling fingers and murmurs into her neck are any indication.

Still, with what she'd call superhuman strength, Ginny manages to keep her head straight and wrangle Harry into the floo and back to his flat in one piece despite his teasing kisses along her jawline.

Once they're inside Harry's flat, giggling against each other, Ginny ushers him into the tufted seat closest to the fire – a worn chintz armchair favored by both of them on cold winter nights. Or any night where they want an excuse to cuddle close together.

Harry drops his head back and scoots to the side, silently inviting her to join him, but being the most clear-headed of the two, Ginny doesn't oblige her baser instincts and proceeds in beginning to help Harry disrobe in a much more clinical fashion than she prefers.

After tossing his second boot behind her with a dull _thud_ , Ginny works up a sweat trying to wriggle him free of more clothing before growling to herself and discarding her jacket to the side. Which earns her an appreciative once over from Harry. "You're s'beautiful Gin."

Looking at him through her lashes as she flicks his belt undone, Ginny smirks, "Thanks Harry. What a charmer."

"So beautiful. I remember when I first let myself realize."

Ginny quirks a brow as she somehow gets him into a standing position and pulls his arms free of his jacket. He clumsily steps out of his jeans and sighs, "'t'was Sixth year and you – well I realized before – but I got so jealous of Dean."

She bites her lip and lets Harry continue, "There was this _monster_."

She ushers him into the bathroom and half brushes his teeth for him as he continues his confession through the minty foam filling his mouth, "In m'chest. And the _dreams_ – bloody hell if Ron had known."

Forgoing teasing mainly because Harry's entirely too adorable at the moment, Ginny helps him toddle toward the bedroom and pulls back the covers with a flick of her wand.

As she's brushing his hair back and tucking his glasses close by on the nightstand, Harry grabs for her hand and mumbles incoherently into his pillow. Crouching down close, she presses a kiss to his temple, "Didn't catch that, love."

"Don' go."

He's a bit petulant and childish, pouting with eyes scrunched closed and a firm grip on her arm. "Please."

Smiling to herself, Ginny kisses him again, "Alright. I'll just get ready for bed, yeah?"

She goes about her business quickly, stealing a t-shirt and using her spare toothbrush in the loo, but she's still surprised when she enters the dark room and sees Harry's green eyes reflecting glassy in the dark like an owl on the hunt. He doesn't speak, so she pads across the chilled wood floor and slips onto the empty side of the bed, trying not to feel _too_ offended when he turns his back toward her.

She _did_ stay here instead of going home at his request. Not that she doesn't want to be with him but –

Harry twists around, nearly tipping backwards in his state, and jerks his head forward. Ginny scoots closer and whispers, "What? Are you alright?"

Entirely too loud for the time of night, Harry flops onto his back and tilts his face toward her, "Y'don't have to whisper Gin – 's just us."

"You have neighbors, dear."

He rolls his eyes, but complies as he adjusts onto his side again, arm reaching behind to grab at her blindly. "Want t'snuggle, please."

Ginny shuffles across the empty space and wraps her body around his, arm firm over his middle and he finally relaxes into the mattress, his fingers knitting with hers.

"Good?"

Nodding, he pulls her arm tighter and murmurs sleepily, "Yeah. S'nice t'be the little spoon."

She laughs silently against the curve of his spine and lets her hand slide up his chest, palm resting above his heart, thumping steadily as she inches infinitesimally closer. Shivering against her, Harry tugs the blanket further over them, "You're s'cold."

"Good thing I have a real live space heater," Ginny murmurs.

Thin, scarred fingers finding hers, Harry drags her hand to his lips and kisses the tips of her fingers, "Anytime, Gin."

His breaths even out, 'til she can tell he's drifted off, but she lets her hand slip down again, measuring his pulse until hers slows to match – quiet, calm, _alive_.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: just a little shorty :)

* * *

When Harry stumbles in after a boy's night in the apartment above Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Ginny's mostly unsurprised that he's tipsy – but a bit peeved that he seems to be completely and utterly pissed.

"Why are you bringing Harry home three sheets to the wind?" Ginny grunts, flicking her wand so the table lamp illuminates her tired eyes and wild hair.

Ron stumbles backward and nearly sends himself – and Harry along with him – sprawling. "I hoped we'd miss you."

Gesturing to the beat up paperback in her hand, Ginny murmurs, "Up reading, tomorrows an off day and I was taking advantage."

As Harry's head lolls against his shoulder, Ron readjusts his burden and frowns in thought. "In the dark?"

"I shut it when I heard your shuffling steps." Ginny says with a grin, "Hoping for a dramatic reveal with the light and all."

Ron snorts. "Well you almost got two concussed, tipsy wizards so, congratulations."

Dog-earing the corner of the page she'd been reading, Ginny sets her book down and stands with arms folded and grin dangerous, "Shall I wake Hermione then? To check you over for safety?"

"What do you want?" Ron asks, eyes wide while Ginny chuckles to herself.

"I'll settle for you taking half Harry's weight getting him upstairs – to _my_ room," Ginny says, clarifying without hesitation despite Ron's narrowed gaze, " _And_ you've got to tell me who caused," she gestures with her hand toward Harry, who's currently blowing her clumsy kisses, " _this_."

Harry chooses that moment to try pushing away from Ron, "Mate. No-no offense – "

Ron grabs Harry's arm before he topples into the wireless and can't help his chuckle, "Harry, it's for your own good."

"Stop tryin' t'keep me 'n' Gin' apart, _Ron_ ," Harry wines, shoving weakly, "She's m' fiancé."

Snickering, Ginny tucks her shoulder under the arm most recently coming dangerously close to clocking Ron in the face and begins steering their strange, six-legged shuffling mass toward the staircase.

They're two-thirds of the way up when Harry rolls his head over to Ginny's shoulder – or as close as he can get given the height difference. "Hi, Gin."

"You _smell_ like gin," Ginny murmurs, tugging his arm more firmly over her shoulders and shooting a glare at Ron, "I thought we had a deal, _Ron_."

"S'not my fault Harry hasn't learned George uses his nearest and dearest as guinea pigs," Ron says with a harrumph while they finally reach the door to Ginny's room.

Butting the door open with her hip, Ginny guides them over to her bed, nearly tripping over a pair of discarded trainers in the process and cursing the heat that coils in her belly as Harry's clumsy kisses against her exposed shoulder and even a few across her face.

They get him couched on the bed, each working one boot free while Harry gets himself tangled in his jumper. As his head presses uselessly against the 'H' on his sweater, Harry's muffled voice sounds from within, "Were's th' hole? Gin I'm stuck."

Ron and Ginny each toss the removed boots away and eye Harry contemplatively, or as much as they can given the laughter tickling their lips.

"I'll leave you to it Ginny?"

"So long as he's not gonna sick up," Ginny sighs, "Are you, love?"

Head poking back through the woolen neck of his jumper, Harry blinks at her with mischievous eyes, "I already did."

At Ginny's wince, Ron snorts, "Stupid sod's lucky he missed my new trousers."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: there have been requests for more drunk!Harry. He's not totally wasted and this is not an endorsement of being irresponsible or whatever. And in my head, these are all spread out, so no, I do not think Harry has a drinking problem lol. I hope you like this little belated bday fic for Ginny.

* * *

Two days before Ginny's seventeenth, Harry spends most of the day moping around the house, which. It's only been a few months since – everything. Moping and poor moods are to be expected. But spending most of her childhood summers with Harry in less than ideal circumstances has acquainted her with his varied moods.

And this one – this one is different.

So she gives him half the day to come out with it on his own, but after lunch – most of which he spends silently picking at his sandwich – Ginny follows him out into the paddock and into the cool shade of the trees off to the west.

He's not up to anything, beyond seeking out a bit of silence, because he's crunching through the underbrush like an amorous erumpent.

Which – is minimally enlightening. Until the muttering begins. Mainly about the "bloody Ministry" and people who "can't take no for an answer" and how he "just wants to be a damn _kid with a girlfriend_."

Ginny lets him go until he drops onto the soft ground a few paces away from a little pond favored by Weasleys and their partners for privacy – though a few run ins with Ron and Hermione have made it less predictable for the privacy element.

But Ron and Hermione are off on some day trip so Ron can see where she grew up, which means the little oasis in the middle of Ottery St. Catchpole is up for grabs.

Sadly, Harry seems to be using it for less enjoyable purposes than usual.

Picking her way forward through the detritus that litters the forest floor on silent feet, Ginny's grateful she slung sandals on her feet before following Harry on his – at the time – unclear journey.

When Harry drops back against the grass with a sigh, Ginny closes the few remaining feet between them and nudges his shoulder with her toes, electric green courtesy of Luna. His eyes shoot open and dart up to her, his shoulders tensing and then immediately relaxing when he sees her looming overhead. "Hey, Gin."

She smiles, "Hello sad face man."

"Creative."

"It made you smile," Ginny says lightly, dropping down so her feet are hidden in the grass near his head, one hand resting gently on his middle. Harry winds his hand around her ankle and strokes gently with his thumb. His eyes linger on the freckles that decorate her calf as he murmurs, "Of course – you nearly always do."

"Nearly?"

A flush decorates his cheeks, "Well sometimes it's – other good things."

Laughing, Ginny lets her hand slip over his side and leans over his head, pressing her lips to his, short and sweet. "What's got you all grumpy today?"

"Your birthday."

"What – can't date anyone over the age of sixteen?" Ginny teases, "If so, lets make the most of our last forty-eight hours, eh?"

In case he doesn't catch her meaning, Ginny wriggles her brows and shifts until she can swing one leg over his hip and perch on his stomach.

Harry's hands caress her bare thighs, toying with the frayed hem of her shorts but going no further. "I – they want me to come in and go over evidence and testimony they've been collecting. The last bit of it will be on Monday. Then Tuesday they are prepping for major raid on. Well they wouldn't say."

Ginny pushes his wild hair back from his forehead, fingertips barely brushing the fading scar over his brow. "No, why would Harry Potter be someone to trust with important security and investigative information?"

He laughs, grip shifting to the soft edge of her well-loved Harpy jersey. "I know – I don't even want. It's your seventeenth."

Slowly, Ginny lies forward and tucks her nose into his neck, breaths slow against his collarbone. "And it will still be my seventeenth in the afternoon, and evening, and even technically a few hours after midnight."

Harry groans and lets his head drop back. Ginny lets the moment set, just teasing his rough jawline with her fingertips. But when Harry doesn't break the silence, Ginny props herself on her elbows and smiles. "Go. Do your whole 'save the world' thing – I'll still be here. Hopefully your gift to me will be a few less Death Eaters roaming about in the world."

So Harry leaves bright and early on the morning of the eleventh – though not before taking Ginny for a fly around the Burrow's property while they watch the sun come up over the rolling hills that rise around the small town in Devon.

As is her birthday tradition, Ginny rises – after her brief nap post fly – with Molly and the two Weasley women dance around each other, preparing a feast of Ginny's favorite breakfast foods for the entire family, plus Hermione.

It's lovely, with still sleepy faces gathered around the table sharing favorite stories from years past and more teasing from George than Ginny'd have expected since – well since a lot of things.

No one pretends to ignore the empty places at the table, though small comfort rises at the knowledge that all but one are mere temporary separations. While George disappears for a few hours to visit Lee and Dad heads off to the Ministry, Molly, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione set about making the yard ready for a full on Weasley soiree.

Preparations end up filling most of the day, though eventually Molly shoos Ginny off to visit with Luna so they can do some secret preparations.

Luna and her dad took up at a little cottage on the coast near Bill and Fleur's, both needing a change of scenery and being honest – which Luna usually was – a bit of an escape, at least for a little while. So Ginny spends most of the early afternoon flying over the crashing waves with Luna at her side, sunlit hair glinting as it flies in the breeze like a bright pennant against the blue sky.

By the time they touch down at Shell Cottage, Bill's waiting in the yard with an _authentic_ French lunch prepared by an ever glowing Fleur. And, despite Ginny's misgivings about her brother's choice in a wife early on, things have changed. Life – _she_ has changed. So while they will likely never be best mates, Ginny's willing to take a few posh sensibilities along with all the more loveable qualities.

Plus, she'd be lying if Fleur's little huffy demeanor about all things British hadn't become just a little endearing.

Shaking her head, Ginny dunks a chunk of crusty bread into the rich seafood stew and wonders whether her newfound maturity about her sister-in-law has been a gradual thing, or merely the miraculous result of being seventeen.

After they finish – waistbands tighter all around – Bill challenges Ginny to a game of chess while Luna leaves to check on her father before the party that evening.

One round turns into two, and then three, before Fleur steps in as the voice of reason, reminding Ginny it would be "'orridly rude to miss her own birthday soirre."

By the time Ginny's surrounded by Weasleys plus Granger and Lovegood, she's nearly content, save that little niggling at the back of her brain reminding her that not _everyone_ is present. And it's not about Fred. No, that's a constant ache like a bruised knee that won't heal, that always hurts a little but when jostled or pressed feels as if you'll never be quite right again. It may sound callous – though no one who knew how Ginny felt about her brothers would think so – but that pain has been so present over the past months that today it feels easier to accept it and plow ahead. Because isn't that what she's been doing since May?

Sure, she's had a few good cries, thrown more than her share of dishes against the wall, and drifted around the paddock on an old broom in an angsty daze to rival a certain dark haired hero.

Who has still not made an appearance.

And, even though she's not angry about it, it is becoming a bit worrisome when the boys are making their post dinner toasts under the glittering fairy lights and Harry hasn't arrived.

They're on brother two of five when the wards chime the sound that only comes when someone with clearance has apparated onto the property. Everyone tenses, even Ginny, until she realizes who it must be.

But Molly waves her back to her seat with a meaningful glance toward a slightly deflated Percy, and disappears into the house.

So Ginny reclaims her seat, smiling at Percy's surprisingly sweet anecdotes from their childhood. Until Harry is ushered into the yard by a clucking Molly as she shoves a plate stacked with food into his hands and pushes him into a seat – one that is sadly _many_ places away from Ginny. But she hasn't time to remedy it before Percy clears his throat and resumes his yes kind but also rather long-winded tribute.

Once he's finished, Ginny drains her champagne – Mum and Dad splurged – and Luna kindly refills the flute.

There's toasting and cake and at least three more glasses of champagne before the party finally starts to disperse, not ending per se, but losing its organized quality as Luna pulls Charlie into a discussion about Romanian dragons, Ron and Hermione begin trying to prompt George in the direction of resuming his and Fred's business ventures. Percy begs off claiming an early morning, but Ginny knows it must be wearing, the pain of the months missed – the days he can't reclaim – so she gives him a kiss on the cheek and invites him to come over and help her get organized for her Seventh year.

She's wandering back across the silvery grass, barefoot and pleasantly tipsy, when a hand darts out of the dark and grabs her fingers, pulling her in close.

And normally, anyone accosting Ginny'd already have met with the business end of her wand and currently be fighting off a nose full of bat bogeys, but she knows that warm scent, those slim fingers deft enough to wield a wand in battle but arms strong enough to hold her as she cried. "Harry."

He hums, hands slipping around her back and pulling her close, his glasses glinting in the moonlight. "You look beau'iful."

Ginny smooths the front of his slightly wrinkly button down, not ashamed to admit she lingers a bit longer than necessary in the process to fully enjoy his increasingly bulked chest. "Do I?"

She can smell the champagne, tart on his breath, when he whispers in her ear, "Th' _most_ of anyone," he pauses for effect, "Ever."

A chuckle bubbles up in her throat and Ginny pulls him toward the little garden she's been fixing up with Molly since the beginning of summer, until they can claim the little wooden bench for themselves. Now that they're in slightly better lighting, Ginny can see the looseness in Harry's limbs, the barely unfocused look in his eyes as he fiddles with the thin strap of her sundress. "'S true. I wouldn't lie."

"You have lied a lot, Harry James."

He looks affronted at that, even letting out a dramatic gasp, "I would _never_ ," she levels a heavy glance at him and he amends, "Not about something this importan'."

Trying and failing to bite back her laughter, Ginny finally gets control of herself, swiping the tears from her cheeks as she glances back up at Harry and holds his face between her hands. "My dear, what did you eat today?"

That's a riddle worthy of a sphinx, if Harry's utterly flummoxed expression is anything to go by, so Ginny tries to lead him along. "You had breakfast?"

He blinks owlishly and then shakes his head, so Ginny tries, "Lunch?"

And then finally, "Well Mum gave you that plate – "

"Nah, I couldn't eat when we were all s'posed to be lookin' at you."

A statement that draws a blush out of Ginny that could warm Gryffindor Tower in the dead of winter – but she comforts herself with the knowledge that had regular, non-earnest drunk Harry said it, she'd have had some flirty something or other to fire right back. But he _is_ so adorably earnest, eyes wide and hands seeking anywhere and everywhere just to touch her – an errant curl, the slight burn on her shoulders from her afternoon at the seaside, the bruise on her knee from a run in with a few overly zealous gnomes – until shivers run up her spine.

And drunk though he is, Harry notes her chill – sadly not the cause – and flicks his wand toward the ramshackle house. "Now's time for your present."

A crinkly package tied with colorful string lands in her lap with a crunch of brown paper and Harry's smiling and nodding toward it eagerly.

"I noticed there wasn't a gift from you before, but I didn't want to seem grabby," Ginny teases, toying with the messily tied ribbon.

Harry clumsily pushes his glasses back up his nose, leaving a finger print on the already smudged lenses, "You didn' mind bein' grabby this morning – "

Ginny huffs, "I didn't hear any complaints."

He leans in and kisses her, messy and heated and entirely too short. "Never, dear."

Squaring her shoulders, Ginny pats the gift once and then flips it over to find a weak spot to begin her tearing.

Harry's a bit nervous as she uncovers the surprise – a large green and gold quilt that smells of fresh cotton and lavender. "Mum?"

As she caresses the palm-sized 'G' in the bottom corner, Harry answers, "I did it – with help. Mum and I stayed up late working on it after everyone else was asleep."

Something warm settles in her chest at the sound of Harry calling her Mum instead of Molly or Mrs. Weasley – it's not always and she wouldn't expect it to. But he'd been so sad and so lonely for the first eleven years of his life – save a few months at the beginning – it just makes her start to feel like maybe there really is a chance of a hopeful life after everything.

Apparently, during Ginny's little moment of introspection, Harry's nerves have returned in full force and he begins babbling a bit, "I wanted to do a Quidditch theme but she said it was too difficult on the first go since I wanted to do it by myself and – and so I just did the colors," he pauses and grabs her hand, focusing on the chapped knuckles with single-minded intensity, "I picked 'em because I know – well you're a Harpy."

"Excuse me?" Ginny laughs, mostly to get the lump from her throat before she drunk cries on her bloody birthday like a hapless little pixie.

"Y'know – like the team?" Harry explains, ability to see past her emotional dodge in his state, "I think you're bloody brilliant about everything, but this is about you playin' Quidditch. I wanna come to all your games and cheer and – "

And then she can't help herself anymore, pitching forward and knitting her fingers through his hair so she can tug his lips down to hers. It starts off long and heavy, until they break away to breath and Harry nips at her mouth while she lets her hands roam over his shoulders.

She's about halfway to climbing into his lap when Harry grabs her around the ribcage and pushes her back, "Wait – I can't take advantage – not when you're – you're drank."

Ginny's a bit hazy at the moment, she will admit, but it's hardly the result of alcohol and if anyone's 'drank' then – "Harry."

His eyes have drifted to that little freckle he doesn't know she knows he loves so much, and she feels a smirk rise on her lips. "I'm fully in control and I want a birthday snog."

Harry works his jaw, and seems utterly torn at the moment, so Ginny takes pity, "I'll put it off 'til tomorrow if that'll make you feel better."

At that, Harry lets out a relieved sigh and kisses her forehead, "Thanks, Gin."

"Instead – we could go for a swim in the pond."

Eyes widening in a near panic, Harry grips her arms and shakes his head, "No! Can't go near bodies of water when you're in-in-inebriated."

"Well _now_ you're just being a wet blanket _on my birthday_."

He shakes his head, "No, blanket's real dry – we made sure," and to illustrate, he pets the slightly shimmery gold gently.

"There's only one way to fix my birthday."

Glancing up at her, Harry narrows his eyes, "How?"

"Lots of day-after-my-birthday kisses."

Harry nods in agreement.

"And maybe a fly?"

Another nod.

"And definitely a nap under the trees with my new beautiful quilt."


End file.
